Miss Waghorn's memory was a source of worry and anxiety to all except the children, who mercilessly teased her. She loved the teasing, though but half aware of it. It was their evil game to extract as many of her familiar stories as possible, one after another. They knew all the clues. There was the Cornishman--she came from Cornwall--who had seen a fairy; his adventure never failed to thrill them, though she used the same words every time and they knew precisely what was coming. She was particularly strong on family reminiscences:--her father was bald at thirty, her brother's beard was so long that he tied it round his neck when playing cricket; her sister 'had the shortest arms you ever saw.' Always of youth she spoke; it was pathetic, so determined was she to be young at seventy. Her family seemed distinguished in this matter of extremes. But the superiority of Cornish over Devonshire cream was her _piece de resistance_. Monkey need merely whisper--Miss Waghorn's acuteness of hearing was positively uncanny--'Devonshire cream is what _I_ like,' to produce a spurt of explanation and defence that lasted a good ten minutes and must be listened to until the bitter end. Jimbo would gravely inquire in a pause--of a stranger, if possible, if not, of the table in general-- 'Have you ever seen a fairy?' 'No, but I've eaten Cornish cream--it's poison, you know,' Monkey would reply. And up would shoot the keen old face, preened for the fray. 'We haven't been introduced, I think'--forgetting the formal introduction of ten minutes ago--'but I overheard, if you'll forgive my interrupting, and I can tell you all about Cornish cream. I was born in '37'--with her eager smile--'and for years it was on our table. I have made quantities of it. The art was brought first by the Phoenicians----' 'Venetians,' said Monkey. 'No, Phoenicians, dear, when they came to Cornwall for tin----' 'To put the cream in,' from the same source. 'No, you silly child, to get tin from the mines, of course, and----' Then Mother or Daddy, noting the drift of things, would interfere, and the youngsters would be obliterated--until next time. Miss Waghorn would finish her recital for the hundredth time, firmly believing it to be the first. She was a favourite with everybody, in spite of the anxiety she caused. She would go into town to pay her bill at the bootmaker's, and order another pair of boots instead, forgetting why she came. Her income was sixty pounds a year. She forgot in the afternoon the money she had received in the morning, till at last the Widow Jequier seized it for her the moment it arrived. And at night she would doze in her chair over the paper novel she had been "at" for a year and more, beginning it every night afresh, and rarely getting beyond the opening chapter. For it was ever new. All were anxious, though, what she would do next. She was so full of battle.